My Carrier War (25 page)

I heard Bill call the tower at Henderson Field for clearance to land. When the tower demanded, “Approach code of the day.” Bill responded with the proper code word. There was no radar at Henderson Field, and this code system was used to prevent an enemy plane from calling the control tower and getting approval to approach the field. We knew that our AA guns were manned. If you didn’t give the correct code, you were the enemy.

We landed at Henderson Field after flying a total of three and one-half hours. Our ground crew began refueling the planes as soon as we shut them down. Each pilot signed off on a yellow sheet, indicating any problems with the plane. Chief Williams reviewed those sheets before the aircraft was scheduled for the next flight. Any problems noted on the yellow sheets were corrected. Williams was tough. If it wasn’t right, the plane didn’t fly. I remember when Williams and I loaded the planes on the carrier way back in Norfolk. He still kidded me about my concerns over getting the planes aboard the carrier.

Finally, the paperwork was done, and all of us, pilots and crewmen, piled into the back of a waiting truck. The next stop was the Pagoda for debriefing on the mission. Everyone was talking at once. The pilot of the last plane to dive was yelling about the fires he’d seen in the target area. Everyone was excited about seeing all the flashes of the AA fire. I heard Bill ask if other planes had been hit. None had, except my wingman’s plane. He was yelling that I owed him big time.

“Norm, those bullets that hit my plane were sure as hell aimed at you.”

We arrived at the Pagoda and scrambled into the briefing room. The first person to greet us was our skipper. He took his time, speaking to each of us—expressing his confidence in our ability as Navy pilots and crew members. He then turned us over the staff air intelligence officer for the debriefing. We were seated by crews, one pilot and his two crewmen together. Each crew was to be debriefed separately. We were asked questions like: “Where did the bombs hit? Point out the map where they hit. Was the AA fire heavy or light? Were any Japanese aircraft visible? How many fires did you see? How many explosions? How many bombs did you see hit the target? Did you see any Japanese aircraft airborne during the attack?”

In addition to the air intelligence officer, our skipper was helping with the debriefing too. It still took over an hour. There was a reward, though. A medic came into the room and gave each of us a small bottle, about two ounces, of Lejohn brandy.

“The doc thought you guys might need some liquid support.”

After the debriefing, we got into the back of the truck once again and went to our tent area. It was after midnight, but the guys were all still up, slapping us on the back, asking questions. “How much AA fire? Did you get some bomb hits?”

After things calmed down, each of us who had flown the mission met with our crewmen to ensure everyone was all right. We’d been warned by our squadron flight surgeon to be aware of signs of fatigue or tension after a combat mission. My crew seemed fine—very excited, talkative, but no signs of excessive fatigue. They headed off to their tent still talking about the attack.

Looking at my pilot’s log book today, I remember that night so vividly. I stripped to my skivvies and climbed inside the mosquito netting over my cot. I lay there, sipping on that little brandy bottle, thinking—an easy flight, no sweat. But then, I remembered those flashes of the AA guns, the bright tracer bullets searching for me. I felt some tears on my face. Suddenly, my body was trembling, legs quivering. I gulped down the rest of the brandy. Nothing helped as I buried my face in the blanket. I didn’t want anyone to hear my sobs or know how afraid I was.

I had no flights during the next few days. As a result, all I had do was worry about my future flights. That night attack against the airfields at Munda on New Georgia Island was still fresh in my mind.

Damn! I’ve got to come to grips with my fear. I’ve been avoiding my squadron mates. I’m so confused. Am I afraid of death? No! It won’t happen to me! I’ll survive...I just know it! No, it’s fear of failure! I’ll chicken out! Damn, why has it always been like this? Always on the verge of failing...school...Navy flight training...now this, combat.

My thoughts were interrupted by George Hartman as he came into our tent. He asked me if I’d like to go find a party. A bunch of Army Air Corp pilots were living next to us, and George suggested we pay them a visit. We’d have a chance to tell them a few sea stories about real aviators. I made sure that my Navy wings were pinned on my shirt. As we walked down the muddy dirt road to the Army area, we saw a group of guys standing around a make-shift table. Everyone had a coffee cup in his hand. One of them saw George and me.

“Hey, you swabbies. Come on over. Help yourself to a drink. We’re drinking it with water—sure kills the chlorine!” There were a couple of quart bottles of Schenley’s black label whiskey on the table. I grabbed a cup, poured in some whiskey and water, and George and I joined the party.

I woke up the next morning with the worst hangover I’d ever had. I lay there trying to remember. I was sure that I’d won a bottle of whiskey in a card game with the Army guys. I pushed one arm out from under the netting, feeling under my cot. There it was. I felt the smooth surface of the whiskey bottle. I lay there, my head throbbing. It was a damn good party. Those Army pilots were lots of laughs. They were impressed when we told them about the bombing attack. It felt good to brag about myself. It must have been the booze. I needed some food to absorb some of that booze.

On March 16, I was back on the flight schedule.

Can’t believe it. Two local flights. I need to become familiar with the Guadalcanal area. So, I’ll fly around the island and make one night flight, though Jesus, wasn’t the Munda bombing mission enough night familiarization?

Upon our arrival on Guadalcanal, the skipper initiated meetings with all pilots each morning. We received an update on our aircraft availability and a general briefing on the military action overnight in the area.

At our meeting on March 19, nine days after our arrival, the skipper reminded us that we’d only had two visits from Washing Machine Charlie, and those attacks had been before midnight. We hadn’t lost much sleep, but we did use the bomb shelter. It wasn’t so much the danger of Charlie’s bombs as it was the pieces of metal falling from the exploding AA shells the Army was firing at him. We already had a couple of slashes in our tent from the AA fallout. The skipper closed the meeting, announcing an all pilot and crewman meeting at the Pagoda at 1300.

For the rest of the morning and in the mess tent for chow, the only talk was of the meeting. It had to be some kind of mission. Maybe the Japanese were moving troops into New Georgia after our attack there, or could it be another attack on the airstrip? If they were moving troops, maybe a strike against the troop ships was in the planning. We all knew the speculation would end soon. All hands were in the briefing room at 1300.

Map of the Solomon Islands area.

As we settled into benches, we noticed a large map of the Solomon Islands on the wall. The skipper took over and again introduced the same Navy commander from the general’s staff who had briefed us on the earlier mission.

“Afternoon, everyone. The general sends his congratulations on the very successful mission this squadron flew the night of the 12th. You guys really did a job!” There were a few raucous comments about a bunch of so-called “hot pilots” who had flown the mission.

He waited for the group to settle down. “Now, let’s proceed. You’re aware of the current strategy for defeating the Japanese in the South Pacific, but let me review it with you. We now have control of the Canal. Our ultimate goal is to destroy the major Japanese base at Rabaul by using land-based air power. To accomplish this, we will invade New Georgia and take control of the airstrip located there. That attack will occur in July. The next invasion will take place in the fall, when the Japanese base at Bougainville will be invaded. Once we have that airstrip, the Japanese base at Rabaul will be in easy flight range of our aircraft. The Japanese will have to fight off our attacks over their own base. Any questions?”

There was a low sound of voices as 30 of us tried to absorb this latest information.

Then a loud voice came from the back of the room. “Jesus, are we going to be here that long?”

The commander continued, “Sorry, I don’t have that information. I’m sure your skipper will keep you informed. Now let’s continue.”

He turned to the map on the wall and pointed to the island of Bougainville.

“Bougainville is the main supply base for the defense of New Georgia. The Japanese have developed an excellent harbor there. Most of the supplies, including troops, come in by boat.” He paused, looking at us. “Gentlemen, we’ve got to close that harbor to Japanese shipping, and we have the means to do it.”

There wasn’t a sound in the room, just the harsh breathing of men who were afraid to ask the next question.

He continued, “Two days ago, a supply of aircraft mines were flown in from Australia. They’re designed to be carried by aircraft and dropped in harbor areas. Once these mines are placed in the water, they will lay on the bottom and explode whenever a ship passes over them. One mine will sink a transport-size ship. They’re very deadly.”

Sweet Jesus! I bet a TBF will hold one. That damn map. It must be 300 miles from here to Bougainville and all the islands along the flight have some Japs on them. I’ve never dropped a mine! Bet we’ll have to be flying low and slow. The Jap airstrip is damn close to the harbor. We’re going to be dead ducks to AA fire! Torpedo Eight all over again. Goddammit to hel...I don’t like this at all!

Our skipper now stood. “Thanks, commander, I’ll take it now.” He turned to us, his pilots and crewmen. “Gentlemen, working with the general’s staff, I concurred with the need to mine the harbor at Bougainville. Consequently, the staff recommends that three mine-laying missions will be required to close the harbor to shipping, The dates for the missions are the 20th, 24th, and 29th of March. We will supply nine TBF crews and one of our sister squadrons will supply nine crews for a total of 18 aircraft.

“Because of the obvious hazards of a daylight attack, all three missions will be flown at night. Because none of you pilots have recent experience in night formation flying, we will fly the mission individually.”

He stopped. The only noise was the sound of bodies shifting on the hard benches and of feet scraping heavy shoes across the floor. I could sense the fear in the room.

“Gentlemen, that’s all for today. There will be nine crews flying the mission. Check the flight schedule for your time of takeoff tomorrow night. The final briefing will be at 2000 on the 20th. First plane off—2100. Try and get some rest. It’s going to be a long flight. That’s all.”

We tried to fill the rest of the afternoon with any kind of a routine to keep us from thinking about the coming flights. Some of us took our dirty shorts, socks, and skivvies to the river and rinsed them out. All of us stripped down and bathed in the brownish, sluggish water of the Tenaru River. Anything to feel a little cleaner.

That night, we sat on our cots talking about the mine-laying mission. We all knew what we had to do. We would do the navigation planning together, helping one another before the final briefing. We also planned to go to the aircraft parking area and watch as the mines were loaded in the bomb bays of our aircraft. We also wanted to see the flame dampeners that had been installed on each plane’s engine exhaust outlets. These would suppress the exhaust flare from the engine. Anything to reduce the chance of the Japanese seeing our planes during the attack.

Finally, we turned off the kerosene lanterns we used for light, hoping that Charlie would not make a run that night. I lay there, maybe for 20 minutes. I slowly reached under my cot and quietly pulled the bottle of whiskey out from under my cot and into my bed. I was not about to stay awake filled with my fears that night. I took a long pull from on the bottle. I knew sleep would come. My fears would disappear.

By 2000 hours on the 20th, the briefing room was jammed with flight crews. Skipper Butts took over the final briefing.

“Gentlemen, your attention please. As you each know, we will make the trip individually. I want a five-minute, take-off interval for each plane. I also want an indicated air speed for all planes of 150 knots for the entire route. This is most important. This will give us a five-minute spacing between each plane at the target area. The mileage from Henderson Field to the harbor at Bougainville is approximately 300 miles. We’re looking at a five-hour round trip flight.” He stopped and picked up a stack of papers. “These are critical to the success of this mission. When I call your name, hold up your hand, and I’ll see that you get one.”

I heard my name and was handed a mimeographed map. It was of the harbor at Bougainville. There was a line drawn starting at a small island at the eastern entrance to the harbor with a compass heading and a time marked on the line. The line ended at the western entrance to the harbor.